


shouting out a litany, an echo calls back

by CallicoKitten



Series: Larrikin [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Anonymous Sex, Death, Fluff, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Rough Sex, Sex Addiction, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, but hawke is so much of a mess, everyone is a mess really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 10:35:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10829520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallicoKitten/pseuds/CallicoKitten
Summary: Larrikin Hawke is born all wrong.He tries though, Maker does he try.-in which m!mage!hawke uses sex as a coping mechanism despite the fact that it doesn't really work





	shouting out a litany, an echo calls back

**Author's Note:**

> i had surgery recently so i've basically done nothing but play dragon age and write stories in my head about it

Larrikin Hawke is born all wrong.

His hair is blonde where it should be dark, not the gold blonde of wheat-fields or the white of bright sunlight, the blonde of ash, grey-brown and pale. His eyes are blue but not the bright, sky of his mother's, deep and stormy as the Waking Sea. When he stretches out his fingers, lightning crackles between them.

His father says there is no shame in magic, in being a mage but Larrikin lies awake as the twins snore and listens to his mother sob, listens to his mother wail.

 _It will be alright,_ his father assures. _No child of mine will ever see the inside of a Circle, Leandra._

-

Carver is stubborn, Carver is angry, Carver throws a fit every time Larrikin screws up, every time Larrikin slips, peaks the interest of the neighbours or the Templars. Bethany likes to watch him send spirit magic skittering across the lake, she likes to watch him shoot electricity through plants gently, gently, not burning, only making them twitch, making them dance.

The villagers in Aramanthine do not see it as such, they do not see childish games, do not hear his sister's peals of laughter, they only see danger.

"Are you even a Hawke?" Carver snaps, one night beneath the stars. They are fleeing North, towards the Korcari Wilds. "Are you only here to ruin things for us?"

Carver is seven, the same age Larrikin was when his magic appeared. He has dark hair and honey-eyes like Bethany, like their father.

"Pay your brother no mind," his father says. "You are as much my son as he."

"It would be better if they let the Templars take you," Carver mutters. Bethany is curled between them, he grips her wrist. Larrikin tries to listen to his father, tries not to feel the sting of his words.

" _Carver,_ " their mother warns.

"Be careful son," Malcolm rumbles. "You may share your brother's talents. Would you want him to speak so of you if you did?"

"Malcolm," his mother scolds. "We do not need more trouble."

She does not mean it to hurt, is only being honest. It would be nice not to have to run all the time because her idiot son cannot keep his hands in his pockets.

-

Larrikin's magic is wild, it does things he does not ask, does things he does not will. When he dreams, demons press in close, promise him things he can scarcely imagine.

His father teaches him well, teaches him to guard his mind, to guard his heart, tells him tales of abominations tearing through families, through villages and towns.

"Do not be what they expect you to be, son," he says. "Be better. Always be better."

-

The next time they flee, it is because Bethany set fire to a chantry sister's robes, Carver is quiet. His father pulls him aside, sets his hands on Larrikin's shoulders and says, "Bethany will need your help to learn to control her powers, just as you needed mine. You must protect her, Larrikin, you must be a good role model for her and if anything happens to me, you must keep her safe, you must ensure she is free, do you understand?"

Larrikin nods, Larrikin promises.

His father ruffles his hair, "Good lad."

-

In Lothering, Larrikin aches to have been born without his father's magic in his bones, to be a rogue, quick and silent as a shadow, a blade in the night, to slit the throat of the men who leer at his sister, to keep a closer eye on his wayward little brother who hits first and asks questions never, who gets in to more trouble than Larrikin and Bethany combined.

Larrikin tries, but Larrikin was born all wrong, all he knows is how to ruin things, how to hurt. He drags Carver home from brawls and scraps, both of them bruised and bloody and Carver spitting with rage, rage against his sibling's magic, rage against their father's death, rage, rage, _rage_. He sits with Bethany in the Chantry, pretends not to hear her prayers to the Maker to strip her of her magic.

His mother despairs.

At least they are steady, they are stable. Their home is warm and dry, they have not had to flee since Larrikin turned thirteen and learnt to control his magic. He still messes up now and again, still slips, is un-careful where his family is concerned but it seems he has not only inherited his father's magic but his silver-tongue.

Small blessings, small blessings.

-

(Where the silver-tongue fails he has his pretty blue eyes, his lithe build, a group of Templars stop in the tavern on their way to Kinloch Hold, see Bethany using magic.

 _We might be persuaded,_ their leader says, grabbing Larrikin by the chin. _Pretty mouth on you, boy._

Larrikin smiles. Tells them there is no need to be so rough if they do not wish to be, drops obediently to his knees.)

-

He joins the Ferelden army only to bring Carver home. Their mother is in pieces, wringing her hands, _my boy,_ she says, _my boy, my boy, my boy,_ kneels in the Chantry, begs the Maker to watch over him, begs Malcolm to protect him, begs Andraste to bring him home safely. Darkspawn are appearing, a Blight is upon them, if they are to die, his mother says, she wants them all together.

Bethany tries her best to soothe her, his sister has always had healing hands where Larrikin's spark and burn but in the end, Larrikin goes to Ostagar, pulls his brother from the fray and yanks him back home.

He is so focussed on keeping Carver in check that he misses his sister, misses her launching herself forwards.

He does not miss the way her bones crunch as she lands, the way her honey eyes are wide and staring.

His healing skills are scant but he tries. He tries, he tries, he tries. Aveline drags him away.

-

In Kirkwall, the scent of the sea and desperations hangs everywhere but Hightown, Larrikin lies sprawled on silken sheets, pretends this is his home. Jethann's hands are delicate as they dance across his skin, "You are so beautiful, serah," he croons. "You would make such a lovely whore."

His tongue follows his hands, Larrikin closes his eyes. He would earn good coin here, better than he did with Athenril, better than he does running to and fro for anyone willing in Kirkwall. Carver would probably end him if he found out, his mother would probably break.

And besides, Larrikin was not made for this, not made for silken sheets and rose-petal-elfroot baths, for being primped and primed and cleaned up nobles, he was made for the slippery cobbles of the docks beneath his knees, for shadowed corners in Darktown and Lowtown, for the grit and dirt of the Wounded Coast beneath his back. He was made for filthy Templar fantasies, for licking lyrium off the tongues of the disgraced, for teasing and ale and bitten lips and bruised hips.

He arches as Jethann's tongue nears his cock. His brother waits outside and stews while Isabella teaches Merrill about the ins and outs of whoring.

When they return to Gamlen's hovel, Carver sits and cleans the sticky demon blood off his blade, throws out barely concealed insults about Larrikin's spending in the Blooming Rose. Their mother is abed, Gamlen rolls his eyes, makes a snide remark about Larrikin paying more rent if he has such coin to spare.

Larrikin smirks, steps back out into the night and finds Samson by the docks.

Carver likes to hit things. Larrikin likes to hurt.

Samson's hands are rough as they tangle in his hair, wind strands about their fingers and tug. Larrikin keens. Samson laughs, a rumble felt through his entire being, "Oh," he says. "Oh, if they could see you _now_."

-

His mother says she does not blame him for Bethany; she blames herself for not being faster, for being in danger but Larrikin knows it was his doing. He should have been watching, he should have been faster with his staff.

Larrikin promised, after all.

-

Larrikin likes the way Fenris grabs his hips, likes the way Fenris snarls and groans, draws blood along his shoulders, hisses in Larrikin's ear that his is a filthy apostate, an abomination waiting to happen.

" _Yes,_ " he hisses. _Yes, yes, yes._

He is the perfect antidote for Anders and his gentle hands, healing hands, soft brown eyes, soft smile. Larrikin cannot deal with that, with his sweetness, his earnest nature. Give him an Anders ripped through with Justice's blue glow any day, the heat of rebellion on his tongue, fire bursting from his staff, _oh,_ Larrikin _wants._

He will be lost if he goes to Ander's clinic in Darktown alone, he knows from the moment he meets him and that is not for Larrikin.

Fenris hates him, hates Larrikin's dedication to rescuing mages, hates his preference for talking his way out of things. If Fenris were in charge there would be more bloodshed, more mages sent back to the Circle, he reminds Larrikin in shades of Carver but Carver as he could be, as he will be, when the anger burns out to a steady smoulder.

Knight-Captain Cullen is a comfortable middle ground, shy and forceful in equal measures, as disgusted with Larrikin as Fenris is, as gentle at times as Larrikin imagines Anders to be. The Knight-Captain hates himself for every moment he steals with Larrikin, Larrikin knows. It is _delicious._

(It is what Larrikin does. He breaks, he ruins, he brings good men down to his level and dirties them up, shackles them to darkness.)

Fenris sucks marks into Larrikin's pale throat. Carver, for whatever reason, has decided Larrikin has taken up with Merrill, wears it as another chip on his shoulder.

-

In the Deep Roads, Carver coughs out black. The taint will spread, he must be killed.

Larrikin cannot use his staff. If he does, he will never be able to raise the damned thing again. Isabella offers, voice low in his ear, Varric does too but no, Carver wants him, wants his brother to end things. Even now, distantly, Larrikin is not sure if this is Carver's way of getting revenge.

"You always wanted the world, brother," Larrikin says, voice cracked, voice raw.

"You always gave it," Carver says. There is no lie in his honey-eyes. "Take care of mother."

He slips a dagger between his brother's ribs, makes it swift and painless. His legs turn boneless, he falls with his brother, watches the blood spread dark beneath him.

He should have left him behind. He didn't even try.

The world seems very far away as Isabella pulls him up. They cannot carry him back to the surface, Larrikin takes his brother's greatsword as a keepsake. He puts his hands for one last time on his brother's chest, sparks a flame.

He will not leave Carver to be food for deep stalkers.

-

Anders meets them as they are coming back into the city, Anders who begged not to be taken back to the Deep Roads but begrudgingly promised he would if Larrikin asked him to. Larrikin was helpless against it, couldn't bring himself to force Anders to return down there, not when the fear was so clear in his face.

He pales when Isabella tells him what happened. "But I - Oh, Hawke, I could have - there were Wardens in the area, if I had only been there I could have - "

"Not now, Blondie," Varric says.

The words take a long time to sink in for Larrikin, by the time they do they don't matter anymore.

-

His mother wails. His mother cries. His mother pounds against his chest and tells him _no._ No, her son, her baby boy, cannot be dead, she cannot have lost two of her children. No. She refuses. She _refuses._ Larrikin made a mistake, he must still be down there, lost, alone.

She begs him to go back, _demands_ he go back. He will not be allowed back into her house if he does not return Carver to her.

She collapses against him, exhausted. Gamlen takes her gently by the shoulders and leads her into her room. "I think you should give her some time," he says, face pale and drawn, voice soft.

Larrikin goes to Fenris.

"Hawke, the dwarf told me what happened," Fenris says, his brow is creased in concern. "If there is anything I can do - "

Larrikin slings himself at Fenris, kisses him roughly. "Only this," he hisses, against Fenris' mouth but Fenris pushes him back. "I do not think - " he begins.

Larrikin leaves, finds himself a Templar in Low Town who fucks him into the wall and rakes blunt nails across every inch of exposed skin.

-

"I am sorry about your brother," Knight-Captain Cullen says, awkwardly the next time Larrikin passes through the Gallows. "He was - that is, he _seemed -_ a good lad. I - If there is anything I can do to make this easier for you." He is careful to avoid Larrikin's gaze.

Larrikin thinks of large, calloused hands holding him still, holding him steady. The Knight-Captain fucks like a teenager, messy and desperate and clumsy, his kisses are sloppy.

Larrikin glances at Fenris. Fenris holds his gaze. Something has shifted between them. Something Larrikin does not want to examine in any great detail. He looks back to the Knight-Captain.

"Not here," he says. "Not where everyone can see."

The Knight-Captain flushes, coughs. "Yes," he says. " _Well._ Good day, Hawke."

-

He does not cave to Anders until his mother is killed.

Does not cave until Anders is leading him upstairs, guiding him to the bed and saying something, something gentle, something comforting.

Larrikin is thinking of abominations, of his sister broken to pieces by an ogre, of his brother coughing black, off his father grey and limp.

Of his mother with someone else's eyes.

He shakes.

Anders holds him. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Larrikin closes his eyes against it. He does not deserve it, does not deserve Anders gentle hands and gentle voice, does not deserve this. It is his fault. They all died because of him, because he cannot keep out of trouble, because he attracts it, pulls it towards him as he pulls demons to him in the fade.

He kisses Anders to shut him up, leans up to crash their mouths together, warm and wet and desperate. He scrapes his teeth along Anders' bottom lip, " _Please,_ " he says, pulling Anders down on top of him. "Please, Anders, I _need -_ "

Anders growls, low in his throat.

-

"You should go," he says, afterwards. "I'll ruin you if you stay."

Anders laughs, shakes his head. "Don't worry. I'm already ruined."

-

If Fenris is hurt, he does not say anything. Does not say anything as Larrikin smuggles mages out of Kirkwall, does not say anything when Anders presses against him in the tavern, kisses his cheek and then his throat, does not say anything as the Chantry explodes and Sebastian falls to his knees and Larrikin cannot bring himself to raise a blade to the one damn thing he has left in this world.

"I am with you," Fenris says. "Not with him."

-

"Go," The Knight-Captain says, spattered in blood and lyrium dust. "Go now, Hawke or I will be forced to arrest that _thing_."

Kirkwall is in ruins.

"Hawke," Fenris barks, from behind Cullen. " _Leave._ "

"Thank you," Larrikin says.

He takes Anders hand and they run.

-

Varric's note is short, non-descript. He has kept in touch since Larrikin left Kirkwall, has kept Larrikin updated on their friends, on the war, on his latest serial not selling well.

Larrikin comes.

The Inquisitor is tall and graceful; she wears twin daggers strapped to her back and introduces herself as Maeve. She is an odd blend of Isabella and Sebastian, has all the Prince of Starkhaven's honour and faith and Isabella's sharp tongue. If Larrikin were capable of such things anymore, he thinks they would be friends.

When Trevelyan leaves him on the ramparts, he tilts his face up towards the sun. He is on the run again, it is good to have a place to take a breath. He descends, slams into the tavern, orders ale after ale, assures the dwarf behind the bar that the Inquisitor will pay his way.

He eyes the Qunari on the other side of the room. One of the Inquisitors friends, Varric has told him, a good man, trustworthy. Larrikin thinks very hard about what those large hands would feel like wrapped around his throat.

The Knight-Captain comes to find him in the tavern and it is hard to say which of them is more surprised.

"It's Commander now, actually," Cullen corrects, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. He has grown in to his bulk, sports a new scar on his lip. It makes him look rather dashing, like a character in one of Varric's novels. "You look - " he begins but trails off, amber eyes downcast.

 _Worn_ , Larrikin thinks.  _Thread-bare, skin and bones, lost._

He rolls his eyes as Cullen sputters, "You don't have to be polite for polite's sake, Knight-Captain."

" _Commander_ ," Cullen says, again. "No, it is not that. I am not simply making small talk I merely wanted to - " He huffs out a sigh of frustration. Apparently, his growth has only been physical; he is still stammering, still shy.

"Out with it Commander," Larrikin says. "I am a busy man, you know, I cannot sit here waiting for you to finish your sentence until Corypheaus swallows the world."

The barest hint of a smile tugs at the corners of Cullen's mouth. "I am glad to see you yet live," he says.

Larrikin arches a brow, "Really?"

Cullen chuckles, "It surprised me too." After a few more moments he inclines his head, shuffles out stiffly.

Larrikin watches him go, stops thinking of Qunari and starts thinking of soft golden curls and scar tissue.

-

The Commander's rooms are easy enough to find. Larrikin pads across the stone walkway from the small room Varric led him to, pushes open the door expecting to be met with darkness. It is late, past midnight. The night air is clear and cool.

The Commander is still awake, bent tiredly over his desk, jaw set. He looks up when Larrikin lets the door slam shut behind him. There goes Larrikin's intended element of surprise.

"Champion," he says, sounding surprised.

"Larrikin," Larrikin corrects.

Cullen swallows. "Did you need something? Is everything well?"

Larrikin approaches slowly, gives the Commander ample time to move if he wishes. The Commander stays where he is.

"Hawke," Cullen says, low, warning.

Larrikin reaches him, drops to his knees, "Let me," he says. "Let me, please."

Cullen looks down at him, he looks pained. "We should not," he says, "There are considerations."

"Tell me to leave, then," Larrikin says. He reaches up, begins to tug the Commanders breeches down. He presses his mouth to Cullen's length through his small-clothes. "Tell me to go and I will, Knight-Captain."

"Commander," Cullen corrects, tilts his head back as Larrikin mouths at him.

"Tell me to go," Larrikin says, once more.

Cullen drops a hand to tangle in Larrikin's ashy hair. His fingers are gentle as curl through it.

Larrikin smiles.

-

In his dreams, he is running, always running. There is smoke and ash and lyrium dust in the air, darkspawn and abominations and templars at his back. His mother is behind him but her eyes are wrong, she walks shamblingly, he cannot let him touch her, he cannot, he cannot but she pleads, she begs, she cries for him.

 _You took Bethany, you took Carver, do not take yourself from me as well,_  she wails.  _My boy, my baby boy._

Larrikin wants Anders. Needs Anders. Calls for him, stretches out his hands to the gloom and ash before him but Anders is nowhere.

They are pressing in on him from all sides.

 _Please,_ he shouts, his throat raw.  _Please, Anders._

When he wakes, the Inquisitor is at the foot of his bed, peering down at him curiously. "We will be leaving for Crestwood within the hour," she says.

Larrikin sits up, scrubs a hand across his face. His cheeks feel hot. The look in the Inquisitor's gaze reminds him of Fenris after Carver died, full of pity, full of sorrow. Full  of the realisation of how damn fragile Larrikin really is.

He hates it.  _Hates it._

"I will be there," he says, in clipped tones. "Or am I not even to be trusted to dress myself?"

She raises an eyebrow. For one moment, he is certain she will rescind her offer, hand Larrikin over to her pet templars and seek out Loghain herself. It will not be difficult after all, he has maps in his bag with the cave circled on it.

She could execute him if she wanted. After all, it was he that began the mage rebellion, started them on the winding road to this.

That is what he does. He breaks things. Ruins them. He never thought he would break the world, however.

But the Inquisitor does not clap him in irons. Instead, she nods, turns swiftly on her heel and makes her way to the door. Once she gets there, she pauses, turns back. "I have nightmares to," she says.

-

The Seeker eyes him with barely concealed contempt as they ride to Crestwood, Larrikin suspects that she has been told to be on her best behaviour by the Inquisitor and her advisors. He is attempting to help them after all.

(Varric told him that first evening in Skyhold, before he sought out the Commander, after he met the Inquisitor, when things were warm and bright and the tavern was lively -  _like home,_ a voice inside him sang - Varric told him that Cassandra wanted him to lead this merry band of misfits and Larrikin had laughed and laughed and laughed.

Under his watchful gaze his family died and Kirkwall descended into madness, into chaos, Larrikin has so much blood on his hands these days it's impossible to see the skin beneath it and she wanted  _him_ to lead.

"I know," Varric chokes, "That's what  _I_ said.")

As they cross Lake Calenhad, the Inquisitor comes to sit beside him. "Do you always travel alone these days, Ser Hawke?" she asks quietly. Varric has not joined them on this excursion, Larrikin is trying to hide his disappointment. They are himself, the Inquisitor, the Seeker, the Inquisitor's court-mage and the Qunari. Larrikin does not fit here, does not want to fit.

"I am not a Ser," he says. He is polishing the bladed edge of his staff, a nervous habit. The blade gleams in the evening sun.

"Technically you are," The Inquisitor says. "Varric told me all about it."

"Oh, I bet," Larrikin says. "I bet you read it all in that dreadful book as well."

He has skimmed it, Varric has been exceedingly kind. There is nothing in it about the days Larrikin would get blind drunk and howl and cry and beat his fists bloody against whatever hard surface he could reach, there is nothing about the kind of company Larrikin kept, the templars and drunkards and visiting sailors, there is nothing about the mess he made of Fenris, of Anders. The broadstrokes are right, they paint a pretty picture, a misguided young man who lost it all and loved too hard and tried his best.

It is uncomfortable to look at someone and know they have read accounts of all the very worst days in your life, printed in block capitals in neat little rows.

He looks over at the Inquisitor, notes the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her dark nose, the neat little ribbon she has tied her tightly curled hair back with. There is a smudge of blood on her cheek from a band of raiders that accosted them on the road. He is searching for her cracks, he realises, searching for the shadows that flesh her out, the things Varric has left out of his letters, will leave out of the inevitable book of Maeve Trevelyan's life.

The Seeker is watching them closely.

"I'm not telling you where Anders is," Larrikin says.

Something like annoyance flickers across the Inquisitor's gaze. "I didn't ask," she says.

"You would have eventually."

-

Loghain is the kind of man that makes Larrikin go weak in the knees, all cold steel and heavy hearts and darkness. It is no mystery to him, Aveline was kind enough to spell it out walking him home one evening.

 _You just want to fix things,_ she had said, tired and angry and black-eyed from one of Larrikin's miscalculations.  _You're obsessed with fixing things, just never the_ ** _right_** _things._

He tried it on with Loghain once and got nowhere and usually, that's the point where Larrikin cuts and runs, retreats to lick his wounds and never looks back but Loghain has become a rather resentful fixture in Larrikin's messy life and he supposes outside of Varric, Loghain is only friend left.

They ride to the Western Approach together in companionable silence. They make quite a pair, Larrikin thinks: the man who killed a king and began a civil war and the man who split apart Thedas. At least Loghain has earned back his honour, has become an admirable man once more.

It is probably for that reason they are still friends.

-

He sends Loghain with the report back to Skyhold, has already met his quota for socialisation for the year, spends a week or two wandering the dunes and caves and picking off small bands of raiders. It becomes a game to him, imagining Anders is out here somewhere in the is expanse of rock and sand, watching, waiting, hoping Larrikin cares enough to find him.

Larrikin is trying.

He  _is._

But Anders is always just out of reach.

-

He intends to stay when the Inquisitor leaves once more, to scout out Adamant with Loghain but Varric, who has accompanied her says no. "You've spent enough time out here by yourself, Dusty, you're going feral."

The Inquisitor watches sadly from behind them.

"Come on," Varric says. "You can't keep punishing yourself."

Larrikin laughs. Laughs and laughs and laughs.

-

Back at Skyhold he sits atop the walls and lets his legs dangle off the edge, wave out above the chasm below and closes his eyes. The chantry tells him that when he dies he will be lost in the Fade forever, he has done so much wrong but in these moments he likes to pretend that if he lets go, if he falls, he will pass through the Fade and find his family.

"Hawke?" The Commander hovers behind him. "You have returned."

Larrikin tilts his head back to meet the Commander's gaze. "Your Inquisitor insisted. She thinks I'm going feral."

Cullen opens his mouth, promptly closes it again. His cheeks flush red. Larrikin narrows his eyes, "What?"

"Nothing," Cullen says. He closes the distance between them, leans forward on the wall Larrikin is perched on, right hand splayed beside Larrikin's left. Something warm glints in the Commander's eyes. "Only I was just trying to recall whether you had ever been house-trained at all."

" _Commander,_ " Larrikin says. "I am  _wounded._ "

Cullen smiles. If Larrikin shifts slightly, they will be pressed together. He does not, the Commander is warm enough this close to be getting on with.

"Do you miss it?" he asks and when Cullen looks at him questioningly he adds: "Kirkwall?"

Cullen shakes his head, "I don't know that there was ever much there for me and if there ever was, there certainly isn't now." He peers at Larrikin curiously. "Do you?"

Larrikin shakes his head.

Silence then. They watch as the sun begins to sink behind the mountains, dusting them a bloody red as it goes.

"Cassandra wishes me to ask whether you know where Anders is," Cullen says, quietly. "I told her you wouldn't give him up for anything."

Larrikin closes his eyes. "You're right," he says. "I wouldn't. Even if I could."

Cullen is quiet for a few moments, untangling Larrikin's words, hunting for their meaning. "You have lost contact with him?"

"He left," Larrikin says quietly. He does not know why he tells Cullen, he has not even told Varric. Probably, he doesn't need to; Varric seems to know far more about Larrikin than Larrikin has ever known about himself. "He left a note, said he did not wish to put me in any more danger, that he could not live with himself if anything were to happen to me."

Cullen inhales, shifts his hand just a bit so it brushes Larrikins. "I'm sorry," he says.

"No you aren't."

-

In the Fade, his mother drags herself towards him, stitched together from doll parts, his sister, legs broken, neck snapped, his brother grey-skinned, seeping black. They reach for him, moaning, begging.

"Spiders," the Inquisitor says, shaking gore from one of her blades. "Such a common fear."

Varric turns, "You saw  _spiders_!? I was creatures infected with red lyrium." He shakes his head, face pale, turns to Larrikin, questioning.

"I saw spiders too," Larrikin lies.

Varric does not believe him.

-

"Loghain," the Inquisitor says but her words fall on deaf ears. Larrikin is done, wants to be done. Let him throw himself at the Nightmare, let him die in the Fade, let him be of  _use._

Let him  _fix_ this but no, Loghain pushes him forwards, pushes him towards the tear in the fabric of their world and yells, "Take him!"

The Inquisitor does, grabs Larrikin by his wrists and drags her after him as they run.

"For the Wardens!" Loghain shouts behind them.

"No," Larrikin whispers.

The Fade snaps shut behind them. Varric is waiting on the other side; he closes his eyes in relief, puts a hand on Larrikin's arm and doesn't take it off until the Inquisitor is done with her speech.

-

This time, Larrikin is expecting him. He waits, on the wall outside the Commander's tower, listens to the music and laughter drift up from the tavern below.

"Maeve told me what happened in the Fade," Cullen says. Again he comes up behind Larrikin. This time though, his hands bracket Larrikins, he presses his front to Larrikin's back, encircling him against the chill breeze.

It is winter; there is snow in the air. It never snowed in Kirkwall but in Ferelden it happened often. Bethany love snow, even Carver cracked a smile. They would spend hours re-enacting great battles in front of their little home in Lothering, traipsing in with red cheeks and numb fingers to sit by the fire and sip hot cocoa with their parents only when their mother's yelling got too much.

Cullen wants to fix things too, Larrikin thinks. Wants to protect things.

Larrikin is tired. He closes his eyes, relents slightly, leans back against the Commander and sighs.

"You think she made the wrong decision," Cullen says. It is not a question.

"She  _did_  make the wrong decision. Loghain was a good man despite it all. He could have helped the Wardens rebuild, set them straight. She only left him behind because Varric was with us."

"Do you truly believe that?" Cullen asks, breath very warm against Larrikin's chill cheek.

 _Yes,_ Larrikin thinks. Yes. There is no other reason, can be no other explanation. He mulled it over as they rode back across Orlais. Loghain had uses, Larrikin does not. There is only sentimentality and the Inquisitor's soft-nature.

"I am not a good man, Commander," Larrikin says, eventually.

"Neither am I," Cullen says. His hands have left the stone of the wall, are on Larrikin's chest and  _Maker,_ it's been a while.

"You're trying," Larrikin offers. "You're here, you're helping."

One of Cullen's hands has found his throat. For a moment, Larrikin thinks Cullen will grip it tightly, squeeze until Larrikin whines (he had done so once before, when Larrikin was in between Fenris and Anders and was mostly pent up rage and simmering desire, had tracked Cullen down and stalked him about the Gallows taunting and taunting and taunting until the Knight-Captain had snapped) but he doesn't. His fingers slide along gently, reach his chin, tilt his head back so they are eye to eye.

"So are you," Cullen says, his gaze is on Larrikin's lips.

"I'm leaving in the morning," Larrikin says.

Cullen nods and kisses him.

It is not clumsy, even at their awkward angle, the Commander has obviously been practising but Larrikin cannot fathom with who but it is too gentle, too sweet for Larrikin's liking. Each time Larrikin tries to change it, tries to roughen it up, Cullen resists. He turns Larrikin with some difficulty, presses him against the wall, one hand cupping his cheek, one hand at his hip.

(It makes him think of Anders, pressed against him on his soft mattress in the Amell Estate.  _I want to take things slow,_ he had said, wicked smirk on his handsome face.  _I'm tired of alleyways and caverns_  and  _oh,_ they had.)

"I am not going to break, Commander," Larrikin says against his mouth, hands balled in that ridiculous coat.

"I know," Cullen says. "Come." He pulls away, opens the door to his tower and crosses to the ladder before Larrikin has  a chance to accost him and slam him against the desk or the wall or something.

"That seems impractical," Larrikin says, off the hole in the Commander's ceiling. "You do know it's snowing, right?"

Cullen hums, pulls Larrikin up the rest of the rungs and half-carries him to the bed. He presses down on top of him gently, his kisses are chaste. Larrikin yanks him back, kisses him roughly, deeply, tugs at Cullen's ridiculous layers, "Come on," he hisses against Cullen's mouth. "Come on, come on, come on."

The Commander smirks, draws back, takes a painfully long time to disrobe as Larrikin pulls off his robes and tosses them aside. "If you're going to be an arse about this, I can find someone else you know," he snaps.

Cullen grins, "I'm sure." He leans in, licks his way into Larrikin's mouth, soft again, slow again. Larrikin balls his fists, thumps at him, unballs them, drags his nails down Cullen's bare back, rolls his hips.

"I am not going to  _break_ ," he repeats, angrily when Cullen pauses once more.

"I  _know_ ," Cullen says again, amber gaze steady.

"Then get on with it," Larrikin scowls. "Fuck me, Commander so we can get back to our lives."

"Better places to be?" Cullen asks. He reaches for the little side table, opens a drawer to pull out a little bottle of oil. He pours some out, slicks his fingers.

Maker,  _finally,_ Larrikin thinks.

But Cullen teases, swirls his fingers around without pressing in, watches Larrikin seethe. "Come  _on_ ," Larrikin urges. "Andraste's  _arse,_ get on with it."

Cullen smirks again, leans down and kisses him as he presses one finger in. He swallows Larrikin's moan, slow, warm, intimate. Larrikin whines. "I am not going break," he says, one last time as Cullen works him open slowly.

This is wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Every time before this has been hurried, rough, full of teeth and grunts and Larrikin's filthy mouth but  _this,_ this makes him tremble, makes him feel hot all over, waves of pleasure coursing through him, slow and languid.

When Cullen finally -  _finally -_ presses in, Larrikin is mad with it, arching, whining, nonsense words pouring from his mouth. Cullen rolls his hips slowly. "Harder," Larrikin urges, cants his hips up, spreads his legs.

 _You would make such a beautiful whore,_  an elf told him once, two or three lifetimes ago.

Cullen is whispering against his skin, "Maker, you're still so beautiful."

" _Harder,_ " he repeats. "Come on, please," he's panting, desperate. "Please, Knight-Captain, Commander,  _please._ "

"Cullen," Cullen corrects mouth near the base of Larrikin's throat. "I think we can graduate to Cullen."

Larrikin closes his eyes, "Whatever you  _want_  just  _please_." (He is thinking of Anders, of Fenris, of all the men he can recall having in Kirkwall's streets, in the dingier taverns, of the Templars in Lothering.) "I want it hurt," he whispers. "Maker,  _please_."

"It's not supposed to hurt," Cullen says, kisses him gently, swallows any further protests, kisses back down Larrikin's throat.

His thrusts are slow, deep, he curls a hand around Larrikin and brings him off slowly, rough pad of his thumb slicking him up. "It's alright," he says, against the base of Larrikin's throat. "It's alright."

Larrikin is lost, all there is is Cullen's hands and Cullen's voice and Cullen's cock. "Please," he mumbles, "Please, please,  _please_."

"Finish for me," Cullen says, voice low, predatory. "Finish for me."

Larrikin whimpers, squeezes his eyes shut, obeys.

Cullen nips at the lobe of his ear, "Good boy," he says, voice strangled, his thrusts become erratic. " _Good boy._ "

-

The hole in Cullen's ceiling is, as it turns out, impractical. His room is freezing.  _So leave,_ Cullen says but it is really too cold to consider leaving the warmth of the blankets and furs piled high around them.

Cullen holds him loosely, like he's worried Larrikin is skittish or something. Larrikin huffs and sprawls himself across the Commander's chest. He is broad, broader than Larrikin, his arms are strong when they encircle him, tight this time, vice-like.

Fenris was muscular but his grip was loose, Anders held tightly but he was flimsier even than Larrikin. Cullen is a middle ground once more, steady and warm and achingly familiar.

"You don't taste like lyrium anymore," Larrikin says.

Cullen is tracing absent patterns into Larrikin's back. Anders used to do that to only he would trace runes, whisper them under his breath. "I don't use it any more. I haven't since Haven."

"That's dangerous."

"I did not wish to be tethered to the Order any longer."

Larrikin swallows. He has never been at the mercy of the Order, has lived in fear of them but he has never known their tyranny directly. He has seen it though, watched it play out in front of him, seen the scars of it on Ander's body, on Ander's mind, on every scared mage they got to too late, on every abomination they killed. He refuses to feel sympathy for a Templar.  _Refuses._

"That's...admirable," he settles for.

Cullen snorts. "Thank you. From you that's high praise."

"Do you ever think what life would be like if you hadn't joined the Order?"

"Sometimes," Cullen says quietly. "I would probably have married, stayed in the village I was born in. Maker, it sounds dull but what I wouldn't give for a bit of peace and quiet."

Larrikin smiles faintly. "I used to think if I wasn't born a mage I'd have been a rogue. A highway man, or something but the dashing kind. The kind that robs nobles and makes women swoon."

Cullen laughs, presses a kiss to the top of Larrikin's head. It's so sweet, Maker it's so  _syrupy,_ so domestic. It took him years to get here with Anders. "Of course you did," Cullen says. "And by the way, you still make women swoon."

Larrikin hums. "Well,  _of course_ I do. Who wouldn't go weak in the knees at the thought of a half-starved apostate in robes that haven't been changed or washed in at least a year."

"I wonder," Cullen says. Then, after a beat, "You do not have to leave, you know."

The words hang between them, like a sword about to be brought down between them. Cullen's tone just shy of desperate. Larrikin could laugh it off, joke that he didn't know Cullen cared, that he does not think the Seeker will welcome him and that he's fairly certain Lady Vivienne wants to and  _will_ kill him, that the Inquisitor's elven girlfriend has already told him she'll slit his throat if he tries to make things too mage-y, that he's breaking Varric's heart by being here with his scars and his wounds and his cracks on display and he's ruined enough of his friends with his existence so  _no thank you_ but he's tired.

Maker, he's tired.

"Someone should let the Wardens know Trevelyan has disbanded half the Order," he says, evenly.

Cullen deflates slightly. "Yes, of course," he says.

Soft. He's so soft.

Larrikin presses closer against him. He's not Anders, will never be Anders but he is kind and gentle, all the things Larrikin was not made for, was not meant for. "When I'm done though," he says, quietly. "I don't really have any plans so if you're still alive..."

Cullen smiles.

-

His dreams are the same, he runs, he cries, he searches. This time though he does not wake cold and alone, he wakes with arms around him pressed up against a human furnace, a voice, sleep-rough, in his ear mumbling, "It's alright, it's alright, hush. I get them too. You're safe, you're safe."

-

He leaves as the sun is rising, presses a dry kiss to Cullen's forehead, leaves a note scrawled across the most important looking document he could find on the Commander's desk ( _See you later if you don't die first/yours, serah hawke, former champion of kirkwall, continuous life ruiner_ ) and rides out.

He makes a game of it, pretends Anders is waiting for him beyond every hill, on the other side of every town he passes through, pretends Anders was there in the Deep Roads, pretends Carver is waiting for him at the Warden Fortress.

It stings less this time as he crests each hill, trudges out of each town, through each tunnel with no Anders, he can turn his horse around when he's done, trot back to Skyhold if he wants.

If he wants.


End file.
